


Iktsuarpok

by mustachio



Series: Untranslatable Words [2]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:45:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2717645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustachio/pseuds/mustachio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil knows he isn't expecting anyone so why does he feel like someone or something is coming?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iktsuarpok

The cement of the walkway leading to their door is cool under Cecil's feet. It’s dark. Not pitch black—there are streetlights and the glow from a Sherriff’s Secret Police officer’s phone nearby and that awful moon shining its awful light—but it’s dark. Cecil doesn’t know what time it is. It could be that it’s ten o’clock and the sun decided not to rise that day.

But no—Night Vale is a small town, but it’s one that is usually bustling with life by the time nine o’clock rolls around. Right now there is no one on the streets; no one walking their dog or sneaking a cigarette while their housemates are otherwise occupied. Right now, Night Vale is sleeping. Right now it is either very early or very late and while he is outside wearing nothing but his robe he has no way of telling which it is. 

Cecil isn’t quite sure why he came out here in the first place. Something woke him up. He isn’t quite sure what woke him, but he’s certain it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t sleep well these days, anyway. 

He crosses his arms over his chest and wishes he’d at least put on a pair of slippers before walking outside. He’s stepping on a pebble and he can feel the dirt accumulating at the bottom of his feet. He’ll have to wash them before he gets back in bed. He isn’t quite sure why he doesn’t just go back to bed now.

There is something that keeps him out here. There is something telling him to watch, to wait and see what comes down the road. He listens to that something.

His stomach twists with something that could be anticipation or anxiety or more likely a mix of them both. Cecil isn’t sure what to expect as he stands out here, waiting for something that may never come.

After five minutes there is no more life as far as Cecil can see than there was when he first walked out. There is the shifting of colors in the sky some distance away, there is the shifting of bushes where Sherriff’s Secret Police officers slack off and take naps when they should be watching each and every citizen. But there is nothing else. There is no one else. 

Cecil sighs. He shakes his head. He walks back inside the house and wipes his feet on the mat he placed in front of the door for those days when Carlos is out doing field work and is prone to getting mud all over the floor.

It’s been months since it has been used for that purpose. He can’t help but wonder if it will ever be used for that purpose again.

Something taps at the window.

Cecil rushes to open the door, to go back out to see what it might be.

A creature with light gray fur and dark gleaming eyes watches him for a moment before scurrying away. Cecil has never had much of an opinion on opossums before, but he can’t help but to feel some resentment towards them now. He takes another look out at the street, but still there is no one.

Cecil is starting to feel a bit ridiculous. He’s only been at this for a short while, but it’s the middle of the night and he knows he isn’t expecting anyone or anything. He has work tomorrow and errands to get done before that. He can’t be up all night waiting for some mysterious thing to show up at his doorstep because he had a feeling that woke him up and told him to do so.

He sits on the living room couch that’s against the wall adjacent to the door. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, but the smell of Carlos is—somehow—still strong on the fabric. It’s too distracting to fall asleep on. He fingers a small hole in the periodic table designed upholstery. They really should get that fixed. Carlos says it’s always been there—he found the couch at a yard sale so of course it wouldn’t be in the best condition, he claims—but Cecil has his doubts. He’s certain Khoshekh did it and Carlos is just trying his hardest to not make Cecil feel guilty about bringing Khoshekh into their home.

Cecil leans forward, elbows on his knees, and head in his palms. He wishes, not for the first time since he returned Khoshekh to the station’s men’s restroom, that he had his cat to keep him company. It’s not like Carlos is even here. Cecil could just clean the house to get rid of the cat hair before Carlos gets home.

He can feel his eyelids getting heavier. They droop down just slightly but Cecil forces them up again. He gets up to take a look out the window. Still nothing. There is nothing coming. There is no one coming. Cecil knows this. Cecil does not know many things, but this he is certain of. 

He goes into the kitchen to get a class of water in an attempt to calm himself. He doesn’t know why he feels like he should be expecting someone. 

Cecil is staring into his glass in an exhausted stupor, watching the ice melt when there’s a knock at the door. He’s unsure of how long he’s been standing there, but the knock brings him back to full alertness and he sets the glass on the counter as he walks as quickly as his tired legs will take him.

The doorknob is cool in his hand. He turns it, but doesn’t open the door immediately. He tries to form a coherent thought. He should ask who it is first. He should look through the peephole to see who it is. He was nto expecting anyone and no one should have been making their way to his house. Why is someone knocking on the door?

Cecil does not ask or look. He has the thoughts, but he’s too tired to fully process them and before he has the chance to do either of them anyway a familiar voice calls his name.

“Cecil? Cecil are you there?”

Cecil all but throws the door opens. Standing there, covered head to toe in sand and with various rips and patches in his lab coat and jeans is Carlos the Scientist. Carlos gives him a shy smile and a small wave and hesitantly takes a step closer. Cecil moves out of the way to let him in.

His mouth won’t work to form words. All he can do is stare and wonder if this is some sort of terrible dream meant to taunt him with the fact that his Carlos is not here.

“Cecil, are you okay?”

Carlos stands awkwardly before him, shuffling his feet and getting sand all over the floor.

“The mat.”

“What?” Carlos blinks at him, clearly confused.

“Use the mat to wipe your shoes.”

“Use the mat to wipe my…” Carlos looks down at his shoes and sees the pile of sand he’s brought into the house. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to make a mess. I’ll clean it up, I promise.”

They stand in silence for thirty seconds. Carlos opens his mouth twice as though to say something, but doesn’t let the words escape his mouth. Cecil just stares, certain of what he’s seeing, but unsure if it’s real. He’s so tired. This could be a trick of his exhaustion.

“Cecil…”

Carlos takes a step forward, but Cecil doesn’t let him take the next few necessary to close the distance between them. He pulls Carlos to him instead, tears burning the back of his eyes and falling down his checks, his nose running in the most unattractive of ways. Carlos pets his hair the way he always does when Cecil is in a bad mindset and lets himself believe this isn’t all a dream.


End file.
